by Nora Roberts
She didn’t flush or stiffen or retreat. She’d become accustomed to taking a stand. “On whether one chooses to be touched.”
He grinned. “I thought we were talking about sculpture.”
So, she thought on a careful breath, she’d walked into that one. “Yes, we were. Now, we really will be late. If you’re ready, Mr. Stanislaski—”
“Mikhail.” He lifted a hand casually to flick a finger at the sapphire drop at her ear. “It’s easier.” Before she could reply, his gaze came back and locked on hers. Trapped in that one long stare, she wasn’t certain she could remember her own name. “You smell like an English garden at teatime,” he murmured. “Very cool, very appealing. And just a little too formal.”
It was too hot, she told herself. Much too hot and close. That was why she had difficulty breathing. It had nothing to do with him. Rather, she wouldn’t allow it to have anything to do with him. “You’re in my way.”
“I know.” And for reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of, he intended to stay there. “You’re used to brushing people aside.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“An observation,” he interrupted, amusing himself by toying with the ends of her hair. The texture was as rich as the color, he decided, pleased she had left it free for the evening. “Artists observe. You’ll find that some people don’t brush aside as quickly as others.” He heard her breath catch, ignored her defensive jerk as he cupped her chin in his hand. He’d been right about her skin—smooth as polished pearls. Patiently he turned her face from side to side. “Nearly perfect,” he decided. “Nearly perfect is better than perfect.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your eyes are too big, and your mouth is just a bit wider than it should be.”
Insulted, she slapped his hand away. It embarrassed and infuriated her that she’d actually expected a compliment. “My eyes and mouth are none of your business.”
“Very much mine,” he corrected. “I’m doing your face.”
When she frowned, a faint line etched between her brows. He liked it. “You’re doing what?”
“Your face. In rosewood, I think. And with your hair down like this.”
Again she pushed his hand away. “If you’re asking me to model for you, I’m afraid I’m not interested.”
“It doesn’t matter whether you are. I am.” He took her arm to lead her to the door.
“If you think I’m flattered—”
“Why should you be?” He opened the door, then stood just inside, studying her with apparent curiosity. “You were born with your face. You didn’t earn it. If I said you sang well, or danced well, or kissed well, you could be flattered.”
He eased her out, then closed the door. “Do you?” he asked, almost in afterthought.
Ruffled and irritated, she snapped back. “Do I what?”
“Kiss well?”
Her brows lifted. Haughty arches over frosty eyes. “The day you find out, you can be flattered.” Rather pleased with the line, she started down the hall ahead of him.
His fingers barely touched her—she would have sworn it. But in the space of a heartbeat her back was to the wall and she was caged between his arms, with his hands planted on either side of her head. Both shock and a trembling river of fear came before she could even think to be insulted.
Knowing he was being obnoxious, enjoying it, he kept his lips a few scant inches from hers. He recognized the curling in his gut as desire. And by God, he could deal with that. And her. Their breath met and tangled, and he smiled. Hers had come out in a quick, surprised puff.
“I think,” he said slowly, consideringly, “you have yet to learn how to kiss well. You have the mouth for it.” His gaze lowered, lingered there. “But a man would have to be patient enough to warm that blood up first. A pity I’m not patient.”
He was close enough to see her quick wince before her eyes went icy. “I think,” she said, borrowing his tone, “that you probably kiss very well. But a woman would have to be tolerant enough to hack through your ego first. Fortunately, I’m not tolerant.”
For a moment he stood where he was, close enough to swoop down and test both their theories. Then the smile worked over his face, curving his lips, brightening his eyes. Yes, he could deal with her. When he was ready.
“A man can learn patience, milaya, and seduce a woman to tolerance.”
She pressed against the wall, but like a cat backed into a corner, she was ready to swipe and spit. He only stepped back and cupped a hand over her elbow.
“We should go now, yes?”
“Yes.” Not at all sure if she was relieved or disappointed, she walked with him toward the stairs.
CHAPTER THREE
Margerite had pulled out all the stops. She knew it was a coup to have a rising and mysterious artist such as Stanislaski at her dinner party. Like a general girding for battle, she had inspected the floral arrangements, the kitchens, the dining room and the terraces. Before she was done, the caterers were cursing her, but Margerite was satisfied.
She wasn’t pleased when her daughter, along with her most important guest, was late.
Laughing and lilting, she swirled among her guests in a frothy gown of robin’s-egg blue. There was a sprinkling of politicians, theater people and the idle rich. But the Ukrainian artist was her coup de grace, and she was fretting to show him off.
And, remembering that wild sexuality, she was fretting to flirt.
The moment she spotted him, Margerite swooped.
“Mr. Stanislaski, how marvelous!” After shooting her daughter a veiled censorious look, she beamed.
“Mikhail, please.” Because he knew the game and played it at his will, Mikhail brought her hand to his lips and lingered over it. “You must forgive me for being late. I kept your daughter waiting.”
“Oh.” She fluttered, her hand resting lightly, possessively on his arm. “A smart woman will always wait for the right man.”
“Then I’m forgiven.”
“Absolutely.” Her fingers gave his an intimate squeeze. “This time. Now, you must let me introduce you around, Mikhail.” Linked with him, she glanced absently at her daughter. “Sydney, do mingle, darling.”
Mikhail shot a quick, wicked grin over his shoulder as he let Margerite haul him away.
He made small talk easily, sliding into the upper crust of New York society as seamlessly as he slid into the working class in Soho or his parents’ close-knit neighborhood in Brooklyn. They had no idea he might have preferred a beer with friends or coffee at his mother’s kitchen table.
He sipped champagne, admired the house with its cool white walls and towering windows, and complimented Margerite on her art collection.
And all the while he chatted, sipped and smiled, he watched Sydney.
Odd, he thought. He would have said that the sprawling elegance of the Long Island enclave was the perfect setting for her. Her looks, her demeanor, reminded him of glistening shaved ice in a rare porcelain bowl. Yet she didn’t quite fit. Oh, she smiled and worked the room as skillfully as her mother. Her simple black dress was as exclusive as any of the more colorful choices in the room. Her sapphires winked as brilliantly as any of the diamonds or emeralds.
But…it was her eyes, Mikhail realized. There wasn’t laughter in them, but impatience. It was as though she were thinking—let’s get this done and over with so I can get on to something important.
It made him smile. Remembering that he’d have the long drive back to Manhattan to tease her made the smile widen. It faded abruptly as he watched a tall blond man with football shoulders tucked into a silk dinner jacket kiss Sydney on the mouth.
Sydney smiled into a pair of light blue eyes under golden brows. “Hello, Channing.”
“Hello, yourself.” He offered a fresh glass of wine. “Where did Margerite find the wild horses?”
“I’m sorry?”
“To drag you out of that office.” His smile dispensed charm like penny candy.
Sydney couldn’t help but respond.
“It wasn’t quite that drastic. I have been busy.”
“So you’ve told me.” He approved of her in the sleek black dress in much the same way he would have approved of a tasteful accessory for his home. “You missed a wonderful play the other night. It looks like Sondheim’s got another hit on his hands.” Never doubting her acquiescence, he took her arm to lead her into dinner. “Tell me, darling, when are you going to stop playing the career woman and take a break? I’m going up to the Hamptons for the weekend, and I’d love your company.”
Dutifully she forced her clamped teeth apart. There was no use resenting the fact he thought she was playing. Everyone did. “I’m afraid I can’t get away just now.” She took her seat beside him at the long glass table in the airy dining room. The drapes were thrown wide so that the garden seemed to spill inside with the pastel hues of early roses, late tulips and nodding columbine.
She wished the dinner had been alfresco so she could have sat among the blossoms and scented the sea air.
“I hope you don’t mind a little advice.”
Sydney nearly dropped her head into her hand. The chatter around them was convivial, glasses were clinking, and the first course of stuffed mushrooms was being served. She felt she’d just been clamped into a cell. “Of course not, Channing.”
“You can run a business or let the business run you.”
“Hmm.” He had a habit of stating his advice in clichés. Sydney reminded herself she should be used to it.
“Take it from someone with more experience in these matters.”
She fixed a smile on her face and let her mind wander.
“I hate to see you crushed under the heel of responsibility,” he went on. “And after all, we know you’re a novice in the dog-eat-dog world of real estate.” Gold cuff links, monogrammed, winked as he laid a hand on hers. His eyes were sincere, his mouth quirked in that I’m-only-looking-out-for-you smile. “Naturally, your initial enthusiasm will push you to take on more than is good for you. I’m sure you agree.”
Her mind flicked back. “Actually, Channing, I enjoy the work.”
“For the moment,” he said, his voice so patronizing she nearly stabbed him with her salad fork. “But when reality rushes in you may find yourself trampled under it. Delegate, Sydney. Hand the responsibilities over to those who understand them.”
If her spine had been any straighter, it would have snapped her neck. “My grandfather entrusted Hayward to me.”
“The elderly become sentimental. But I can’t believe he expected you to take it all so seriously.” His smooth, lightly tanned brow wrinkled briefly in what she understood was genuine if misguided concern. “Why, you’ve hardly attended a party in weeks. Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Are they?” She forced her lips to curve over her clenched teeth. If he offered one more shred of advice, she would have to upend the water goblet in his lap. “Channing, why don’t you tell me about the play?”
At the other end of the table, tucked between Margerite and Mrs. Anthony Lowell of the Boston Lowells, Mikhail kept a weather eye on Sydney. He didn’t like the way she had her head together with pretty boy. No, by God, he didn’t. The man was always touching her. Her hand, her shoulder. Her soft, white, bare shoulder. And she was just smiling and nodding, as though his words were a fascination in themselves.
Apparently the ice queen didn’t mind being pawed if the hands doing the pawing were as lily-white as her own.
Mikhail swore under his breath.
“I beg your pardon, Mikhail?”
With an effort, he turned his attention and a smile toward Margerite. “Nothing. The pheasant is excellent.”
“Thank you. I wonder if I might ask what Sydney’s commissioned you to sculpt.”
He flicked a black look down the length of the table. “I’ll be working on the project in Soho.”
“Ah.” Margerite hadn’t a clue what Hayward might own in Soho. “Will it be an indoor or outdoor piece?”
“Both. Who is the man beside Sydney? I don’t think I met him.”
“Oh, that’s Channing, Channing Warfield. The Warfields are old friends.”
“Friends,” he repeated, slightly mollified.
Conspiratorially Margerite leaned closer. “If I can confide, Wilhelmina Warfield and I are hoping they’ll make an announcement this summer. They’re such a lovely couple, so suitable. And since Sydney’s first marriage is well behind her—”
“First marriage?” He swooped down on that tidbit of information like a hawk on a dove. “Sydney was married before?”
“Yes, but I’m afraid she and Peter were too young and impetuous,” she told him, conveniently overlooking the family pressure that had brought the marriage about. “Now, Sydney and Channing are mature, responsible people. We’re looking forward to a spring wedding.”
Mikhail picked up his wine. There was an odd and annoying scratching in his throat. “What does this Channing Warfield do?”
“Do?” The question baffled her. “Why, the Warfields are in banking, so I suppose Channing does whatever one does in banking. He’s a devil on the polo field.”
“Polo,” Mikhail repeated with a scowl so dark Helena Lowell choked on her pheasant. Helpfully Mikhail gave her a sharp slap between the shoulder blades, then offered her her water goblet.
“You’re, ah, Russian, aren’t you, Mr. Stanislaski?” Helena asked. Images of Cossacks danced in her head.
“I was born in the Ukraine.”
“The Ukraine, yes. I believe I read something about your family escaping over the border when you were just a child.”
“We escaped in a wagon, over the mountains into Hungary, then into Austria and finally settled in New York.”
“A wagon.” Margerite sighed into her wine. “How romantic.”
Mikhail remembered the cold, the fear, the hunger. But he only shrugged. He doubted romance was always pretty, or comfortable.
Relieved that he looked approachable again, Helena Lowell began to ask him questions about art.
After an hour, he was glad to escape from the pretensions of the society matron’s art school jargon. Guests were treated to violin music, breezy terraces and moon-kissed gardens. His hostess fluttered around him like a butterfly, lashes batting, laughter trilling.
Margerite’s flirtations were patently obvious and didn’t bother him. She was a pretty, vivacious woman currently between men. Though he had privately deduced she shared little with her daughter other than looks, he considered her harmless, even entertaining. So when she offered to show him the rooftop patio, he went along.
The wind off the sound was playful and fragrant. And it was blessedly quiet following the ceaseless after-dinner chatter. From the rail, Mikhail could see the water, the curve of beach, the serene elegance of other homes tucked behind walls and circling gardens.
And he could see Sydney as she strolled to the shadowy corner of the terrace below with her arm tucked through Channing’s.
“My third husband built this house,” Margerite was saying. “He’s an architect. When we divorced, I had my choice between this house and the little villa in Nice. Naturally, with so many of my friends here, I chose this.” With a sigh, she turned to face him, leaning prettily on the rail. “I must say, I love this spot. When I give house parties people are spread out on every level, so it’s both cozy and private. Perhaps you’ll join us some weekend this summer.”
“Perhaps.” The answer was absent as he stared down at Sydney. The moonlight made her hair gleam like polished mahogany.
Margerite shifted, just enough so that their thighs brushed. Mikhail wasn’t sure if he was more surprised or more amused. But to save her pride, he smiled, easing away slowly. “You have a lovely home. It suits you.”
“I’d love to see your studio.” Margerite let the invitation melt into her eyes. “Where you create.”
“I’m afraid you’d find it cramped, hot and boring.”
&n
bsp; “Impossible.” Smiling, she traced a fingertip over the back of his hand. “I’m sure I’d find nothing about you boring.”
Good God, the woman was old enough to be his mother, and she was coming on to him like a misty-eyed virgin primed for her first tumble. Mikhail nearly sighed, then reminded himself it was only a moment out of his life. He took her hand between both of his hands.
“Margerite, you’re charming. And I’m—” he kissed her fingers lightly “—unsuitable.”
She lifted a finger and brushed it over his cheek. “You underestimate yourself, Mikhail.”
No, but he realized how he’d underestimated her.
On the terrace below, Sydney was trying to find a graceful way to discourage Channing. He was attentive, dignified, solicitous, and he was boring her senseless.
It was her lack, she was sure. Any woman with half a soul would be melting under the attraction of a man like Channing. There was moonlight, music, flowers. The breeze in the leafy trees smelled of the sea and murmured of romance. Channing was talking about Paris, and his hand was skimming lightly over her bare back.
She wished she was home, alone, with her eyes crossing over a fat file of quarterly reports.
Taking a deep breath, she turned. She would have to tell him firmly, simply and straight out that he needed to look elsewhere for companionship. It was Sydney’s bad luck that she happened to glance up to see Mikhail on the rooftop with her mother just when he took Margerite’s hand to his lips.
Why the…she couldn’t think of anything vile enough to call him. Slime was too simple. Gigolo too slick. He was nuzzling up to her mother. Her mother. When only hours before he’d been…
Nothing, Sydney reminded herself and dismissed the tense scene in the Soho hallway from her mind. He’d been posturing and preening, that was all.
And she could have killed him for it.
As she watched, Mikhail backed away from Margerite, laughing. Then he looked down. The instant their eyes met, Sydney declared war.
She whirled on Channing, her face so fierce he nearly babbled. “Kiss me,” she demanded.
“Why, Sydney.”